Sword of the Tyrant

by Cebelius

  Terry glanced at Isthil as he asked, "Where are they coming from?"

  The Nightmare pointed as she asked, "What do ye want me to do?"

  "Protect Mila and Shy. Halla, you're with me."

  "You got it, Boss!"

  Halla had the ability to adjust her size. Mila had seen her anywhere from six to thirteen feet tall. Now she swelled to match Terry as she strode after him, carrying a studded, solid metal club. Something about an oni's magic resized whatever she wore to suit her, including a breastplate not unlike Yuri's, though instead of metal faulds to cover her upper legs she had a steel-studded skirt of leather straps, along with metal bracers and greaves.

  Her blue skin contrasted sharply with the bright red fuzz of hair growing in on her head, and the black nubs of her horns stood out of her forehead, matched below by the tusks protruding just a bit over her upper lip. The mystic giant's golden eyes glimmered with the happy anticipation of battle.

  Mila exchanged a look with Shy as they fell in behind the two giants, and asked, "Did I miss something?"

  Shy's lips were pursed with concern as she looked after Terry, but she shook her head and said, "People have been chasing and threatening him since he got here. When he heard these people were coming, something inside him just ... snapped."

  "Do we actually know why they are coming?" Mila asked. "They might have been dispatched to fight Stheno, not knowing she was truly invincible."

  "Let's hope they were, for their sakes," Shy said as she pulled the Rod of Arcs from her back.

  By now they'd cleared the last of the buildings and yurts and the dust of the approaching horde was easy to spot on the horizon.

  Mila began going through the spells she knew and which ones she would use if it really did come to a fight.

  As a Rakshasa, she no longer had affinities, but that didn't mean she automatically knew any spells that lay outside her training. Her specialties were abjuration and healing. She could control the conditions on a battlefield, and given the numbers approaching, she would need to be on her toes.

  "What spells will you be using?" Shy asked. "I can cast bolts, and I have a spell that I can use to pull a wall of brambles up from the ground. I know another that will entangle, but that is the limit of what I have that will be useful here."

  Mila nodded and said, "I can do walls, healing, and zones of influence. I will cast a spell that increases the likelihood of misses and glancing blows, then form shields where I can to prevent the enemy from simply raining arrows down on our heads."

  Shy nodded, and together they followed after Terry.

  Mila would wait to cast her first spell until battle was joined, as it would only last a minute.

  IF battle is joined. Hopefully, they will see Terry and rethink an attack.

  Her eyes settled on him, on the way his power literally radiated from him. The air around Terry shimmered as though with heat waves, and his ruby armor glimmered in the orange light of evening. At ten feet tall, he would tower over even the biggest minotaur, and his bloody-hafted lumbering ax — with its many chips and stains accented by the clean line of recent work with a grindstone — painted a grim picture. The ax had grown along with him, as had the Rod.

  Though he wasn't looking at her, she knew that it would be difficult for anyone to meet his gaze, much less speak to him. Such was the aura of might bestowed by the staff.

  They could hear the rumble of hooves now as the horde surged toward them. They weren't charging, but came on at a ground-shaking trot that didn't slow until Terry raised his voice and bellowed.

  He must have amplified his voice with magic, because it was almost as loud as Asturial's roar.

  "That's far enough!"

  The horde slowed to a stop about thirty feet from where Terry stood, and Mila's heart sank as she got her first good look.

  Wanderers.

  The herds did not execute those who broke their laws. Instead, they were exiled. Most left the Steppe for other, less hostile lands, but many could not or refused to leave their home, instead forming groups that raided for and stole what they wanted.

  Such raiders had occasionally been known to try and bribe their way back into the herds when they acquired something — invariably at the expense of foreigners — that a leader valued.

  It was obvious from the ragged look of most of the minotaurs in the front line that they were not well-taken care of. They were rangy and ragged, with spots of rust on their weapons and wearing clothing stiff and stained for want of a wash.

  One stepped forward, carrying a long-hafted battle ax easily over one shoulder.

  "You the template?" he asked, voice gruff and presumptive.

  Terry's voice, still amplified, carried over the restless horde of minotaurs easily as he answered, "I'm the Boss. If you're here to bother me, turn your herd around and head off. I'm not in the mood."

  There was a ragged chuckling through the ranks as the leader sneered and said, "This look like a herd to you? Maybe you think you got some size, but this rowdy bunch I got with me?"

  He waved his ax behind him without breaking eye contact. "We'll run you down. Come quietly and we'll leave the rest of 'em alone. Don't, and well ... I'm sure we'll find a use for 'em."

  Mila marveled at the minotaur's mix of arrogance and ignorance. Couldn't he see the power he faced? Didn't he realize Terry would certainly kill him first?

  Without another word, Terry started walking forward. When Halla started to join him, he waved her back.

  Mila was not surprised when Halla obeyed without question. It was clear to her that the oni idolized Terry, and didn't question anything the man did.

  His long stride carried him forward with deceptive quickness, and the big minotaur's sneer broadened as he said, "Good man! Sensible! Just drop that stick and ax."

  To Mila's shock, Terry did just that. He dropped the Rod of the Heart and his bloody-hafted ax when he was ten feet away, then stopped at five, staring down at the leader of the raider horde as he asked, still in his booming voice, "Who's in charge here?"

  "Can't you tell? I am!" the big minotaur boomed back, trying to match the template's volume.

  Without a word or warning of any kind, Terry killed him.

  His right hand whipped out, and the minotaur's head flew away into the crowd behind him trailing an arc of blood.

  Prada sent pseudopods backward, retrieving Terry's weapons and putting them back in his hands before the erstwhile leader's body even finished collapsing, blood spraying from the bloody stump that remained of its neck. Some of that blood spattered across Terry, but he ignored it as he boomed again, "Who's in charge here?"

  For a shocked handful of seconds, no one moved. Terry — once more blazing with the prideful power of the Rod of the Heart — filled that silence as he bellowed, "Who's the Boss!?"

  He was standing only ten feet from the front line, and when one of the minotaurs near him began to bellow what Mila presumed to be a call to charge, Terry flicked his ax toward the offender. It never left his hand. The arm holding it simply extended, cracking with the speed of a whip, and the notched blade clove through the heavy skull of the grungy minotaur, silencing his bellow. Several others had begun to yell as well, but the cries of several of the nearest changed from rage to fear as spikes shot from Terry's armor, impaling them.

  The abortive war cry faltered under the screams of the dying, and Terry watched impassively as — one by one — the minotaurs Prada hit sagged to their knees, then their faces.

  Terry's arm retracted back to him, and he lifted the now gore-spattered ax over his head as he roared again, "Who's in charge here?!"

  Another minotaur, perhaps realizing he was in reach and no longer hidden by a front line now dead and dying on the ground, dropped his notched two-handed sword and said something Mila didn't quite hear.

  "Louder!" Terry demanded, swinging his ax down to point at the smart one, who cried out in a voice that cracked with fear, "You are!"

  "That's RIGHT, mother fu
cker! I'm the Boss, and if you don't want to die, pick up your shit and get the FUCK out of here!"

  Mila watched, blinking in astonishment, as those closest peeled away to either side and started to run.

  It was clear that those toward the back of the ragged formation couldn't believe what was going on and there was a yell from the back, "He's only one man! What the fuck?! GET HIM!"

  "You first!" the minotaur who'd first broken screamed back. "I'm leaving with my head still on my shoulders!"

  The horde split. Most of the front ranks broke and ran, but they ran to the sides, leaving those behind to charge forward, howling for blood.

  "Halla!" Terry yelled as he waded in, and Mila began casting. It took only a few seconds for her spell to take hold, and the breeze subtly changed direction to blow at their backs along with the luck of battle. Next to her, Shy described a line in the ground before her and lightning cascaded down, following her gesture. Seconds later euphorbia vines erupted from the earth in a shower of dirt and turf, and those who had not been killed by the lightning strike began to shriek and wail as their bodies were caught and shredded by the brutal plant life.

  Mila watched as Halla waded in with a joyous cry. Her studded club swung in looping underhanded arcs that sent minotaurs and ... pieces of minotaurs flying away while blood and gore rained down on everyone nearby.

  Terry showed no hesitation and no restraint, hewing through the foes in front of him with deadly intent. His bloody-hafted ax crushed as much as it cut, and such was his strength that none could stop him. Nevertheless, he was soon surrounded and Prada demonstrated her worth as armor not by absorbing the savage blows of her adversaries but by slaughtering anyone within her range that lifted a weapon against her wearer.

  Her strikes were precise and lightning quick, usually through the eye or throat, but any who managed to get behind Terry and turned to face him usually fell to their knees a second later, blood spraying.

  A small cloud of arrows rose from the back of the horde and Mila recognized the trajectory immediately and lifted her staff, casting as the slivers of death reached the apogee of their arcs and began to fall toward Isthil, Shy, and herself.

  The energy of her spell manifested and the arrows rattled against each other as they struck the unseen barrier and bounced away.

  The battle lasted no more than two minutes, and by the end of it minotaurs were streaming away from the scene of bloody carnage in every direction so long as it was away from the devilish template and his insanely brutal oni companion.

  Mila couldn't immediately tell if Halla was injured. Her blue skin and the dark sheen of blood that seemed to coat her made it difficult to tell if any of it belonged to her. The oni seemed unconcerned, resting her gore-spattered club on her shoulder and glancing around with the sort of satisfaction a lumberjack might have taken after felling the day's quota of trees.

  Terry arched backward as he let out a feral yell, and when he arched, a gaping maw filled with jagged teeth opened in his middle and Prada added a blood-chilling roar of her own to his. Together, their unified cry seemed to shake the world, and Mila was a full thirty feet behind him.

  The sight and sound of that monstrous mouth opening in Terry's belly broke what little resistance remained as the archers — finding themselves now unprotected — turned tail and fled.

  For almost a full minute, Terry stood, watching them go. Mila could see him trembling, but she knew it wasn't fear. Not this time.

  He wants to chase them, she realized. He wants to run them down and kill them all. Prey has at last become predator.

  Finally, he turned and strode back toward the group, and Mila saw that the blood devil had manifested more than just a monstrous mouth. Real eyes gazed out from Terry's shoulders. They were slitted, with blood-red irises, each almost eight inches across.

  Terry's armor now looked like what it was, a living devil hungry for blood.

  As he reached them, Mila heard him say in conversational tones, "The Blemmyes mouth was inspired. Nice touch."

  "Eyes too," Prada said, speaking with the mouth she had manifested. Her sultry voice did not fit, and it made Mila shudder.

  "Hey Halla?"

  "Yeah Boss?"

  Halla was grinning, her tusks thrust almost pugnaciously forward as she radiated self-satisfaction.

  Terry gestured behind him and said, "Food there if you want it. Just do me a favor if you do eat, and make sure you leave the bones and a few bits and pieces behind. I want anyone who comes back here to know what happens to people who chase me."

  Halla blinked, then looked speculatively toward the bodies left behind by the fleeing hoard. At Mila's estimate, at least half of the original horde were dead or dying. Several were obviously still alive, most of those caught in Shy's euphorbia vines.

  "You want me to kill those guys?" she asked, pointing toward the survivors.

  "No. The fight's out of them. Shy? Would you go cut them loose? Feel free to defend yourself however you see fit if any of them give you trouble."

  Mila glanced over at Shy, who shrugged and ambled away toward the scene of carnage with a studied lack of concern.

  "You gonna eat with me?" Halla asked, glancing back at Terry.

  "Sorry, La. If it talks, I don't eat it."

  "Oh, I get it. This is another one of those hang-ups Laina talks about. No problem. More for me."

  Halla walked off, actually licking her lips, and Mila exchanged a look with Terry as he said, "Um ..."

  "It is all right, Terry," Mila said, shuddering slightly as she said, "That is a hang-up we share."

  "Should I not have encouraged her?" Terry asked.

  "La is who she is," Mila said quietly. "If she does not eat them, something else will."

  "You've got a gift for that," Isthil said to Terry as she nodded toward the fleeing horde. "Terror is in your blood."

  "Nah. The whole 'who's in charge' thing? I stole it from someone else," Terry said with a grin. "It didn't even really work."

  "It did work. Quite well. Fully a third of our antagonists broke and fled before the fight began," Prada said pointedly. "You're welcome."

  Terry chuckled, then glanced back and watched as Halla picked up the body of the leader and began to strip it of gear. His smile faded, and he looked away with a distinctly queasy expression and nodded toward the town as he said, "Yeah, not going to hang around and watch that."

  He moved through the ghost town with Mila and Isthil trailing after. He turned and said, "Let's get the supplies into the longhouse."

  Mila asked, "You still want to stay? Should we not flee?"

  "Can't really run with all our gear and supplies, not to mention my kids."

  "Kids?" Isthil said as she fell in next to Terry.

  "Those cocoons."

  Isthil blinked, and the disbelief was plain on her face. Mila said, "It is a long story. To be brief, he took them in after their mother was killed."

  "Oh, adopted then."

  Mila grinned around her sabers. "No, they are his. As I said, it is a long story."

  "I'da never thought you'd have that in common with Thomas," Isthil said, shaking her head bemusedly as she looked after Terry.

  "What's that?" Terry asked, not looking around. He reached the supply cache and picked up a barrel in each arm. Prada reached out with pseudopods to pick up two more, couching them against his armored back as he turned toward the longhouse.

  "Arachne's chosen look like that after the Dust Lord bloods 'em," Isthil said as she hoisted a barrel and Mila picked up a few crates, marveling a bit at her own significantly increased strength.

  "You know Arachne?" Terry asked.

  "Sure. She's one of the Powers and bound to the Dust Lord a fair sight longer than me," Isthil said. "A friendly enough sort, if ye can look her in the face. Her blooded spawn were among the most powerful o' the zone elite, though of late I hadn'a seen many of 'em about. They only live about fifty years or so."

  Mila couldn't tell what Terry though
t about what he'd been told. She knew that Arachne had invaded his dreams at one point in order to direct him with regard to the spiders clinging to him, but since then if they'd had any contact, he hadn't revealed it.

  He hadn't expressed any surprise, though the fact that Arachne served the Dust Lord was certainly news to her.

  "Terry?" she asked.

  "Yeah?" He didn't turn around, though as he reached the front of the longhouse he stopped and set one of the barrels aside long enough to open the door.

  "It does not bother you that Arachne, she who gave you instruction, belongs to your enemy?"

  "Sure it does," he said, retrieving the barrel. After a moment's hesitation as he considered the geometry involved, he turned sideways to get his load through the entrance. Prada shifted the barrels away from his body and behind him, which almost tipped him over before he adjusted. Once inside, he continued. "There are several other things more important than that though. First, those are still my kids, fucked up as that is. They're my responsibility. Second, Arachne claimed those spiders as her grandchildren. Which, incidentally, means Ephe was probably descended from the Dust Lord. Wow, that's weird to think about."

  Terry'd clearly lost his own line of thought, and as he set the barrels down in one corner of the room he muttered, "If I'd married her I'd now be on a quest to kill my great-times-something granddad-in-law."

  Prada said in a faux deep male voice, "I am your father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate."

  Terry burst out laughing.

  After a moment he glanced around and caught Mila's bemused stare. She said, "I seem to be missing some context here."

  "My brother made me watch this movie when I was little," Terry said, his smile growing a bit wistful. "It was the dumbest shit, and honestly not my thing, but there were some really funny lines and I was just a kid. I laughed for weeks. Prada's just using a line from that flick to remind me that where Ephe came from doesn't matter, and she's right."

  Mila set her barrel down, then straightened and rolled her shoulders as she asked, "What is a 'movie?'"

  "You spent a whole week in Voight's mansion and never watched a movie?"